by Jay Giles
Much of what she found revolved around payment for Anna Albrecht’s care. There were multiple invoices from the Clinic, letters from the Director stating ...if your account is not made current within 30-days, we have no choice but to... and listing dire consequences, not the least of which, was the removal of Anna to indigent care.
She also learned Albrecht’s bank was about to foreclose on his mortgage, he was two-months behind in his utility payments, had been cut off by both his grocer and wine merchant for lack of payment.
When she finished the desktop, Marike started on the drawers. She found his checkbook, the style with three checks to a page, in the center drawer. It showed an ending balance of $454. Working backward from that last entry, Marike reviewed the stubs for each check’s recipient, amount. She found three stubs—number 2478 for $5,000, 2490 for $1,819, 2661 for $18,880, all dated within a two-week period, four months ago—with no recipient listed.
Intrigued by this abnormality in an otherwise fastidious checkbook, Marike searched the other drawers for cancelled checks. Finding none, she moved on the credenza. Found none there.
The study had a closet. She found stacks of magazines, photo books, boxes of old broker statements, but no cancelled checks. Finished with the closet, she gave the rest of the room a once over, saw there were no other places things might be stored, frowned. She doubted Albrecht had thrown away his cancelled checks, left everything else. Thinking he must store them in some other room, she began a search, starting in the basement where a wall of shelves was filled with boxes.
Marike began with the lowest, easiest boxes first. She found Christmas decorations, old clothes, records, a beer stein collection. On the third shelf, in a box with a picture of a microwave on the outside, she struck pay dirt.
The box was filled with cancelled checks, each month’s batch wrapped by a rubber band. Marike sorted through them, found the month she wanted, pulled off the rubber band, eagerly found the checks: 2478 was to PV Sailboat Charters and was marked deposit. 2490 was to Lufthansa. 2661 was to PV Sailboat Charter and was marked balance due. She turned the checks over, smiled at what she found.
She knew where Albrecht had vacationed.
CHAPTER 90
“Look at you. You look so different,” Albrecht said as he approached the woman standing beside the dark blue Mercedes sedan.
Monique Lazarr’s collagen-plump, shocking-pink lips broke into a smile. She’d been a dowdy house frau when Albrecht first met her at the Mayfield Clinic. But after three months of plastic surgery in Los Angeles, she’d gone from vapid to vixen. Her mousy brown hair was now golden blond. Cheek implants, brow lift, chin augmentation, and rhinoplasty had tightened, re-contoured her face. Lasik had eliminated her glasses. The biggest change, however, came below the neck. Monique, always flat-chested, had had breast augmentation. Her measurements were now the same as Pamela Anderson’s. Her outfits similar, too. Today, she had on a day-glow orange blouse with a low-scooped front that showed plenty of cleavage, short shorts, sandals.
She wrapped her arms around Albrecht, pulled him to her, pressed her new breasts against his chest, let him feel them. “And I would not have recognized you. You are so skinny,” Monique Lazarr said delightedly, kissing him. She pulled away, giggling, rubbed her face. “The beard, it tickles.”
Albrecht enjoyed the feel of her body against his, laughed, ran his hand over his beard. “You’ll learn to love it, darling.” He picked up his suitcase, carried it to their car.
“I’ve missed you,” she said, hugging his arm as they walked. “You said the time would pass quickly, but it has been an eternity.”
Albrecht opened the trunk of the Mercedes, put in his bag. Monique got in the driver’s seat, Albrecht the passenger’s seat. “Any problems?” he asked.
She smiled over at him. “Nothing I couldn’t manage.” She glanced at the rear view mirror for a quick check of her make-up, another new found skill. She started the car, drove away from the Marina.
Their friendship had begun two years before. Both were visiting spouses at the Mayfield Clinic. Albrecht there to visit Alma, Monique her husband Ernst.
Ernst, a successful investment banker, had suffered a major stroke five years earlier that had left him with brain damage, paralyzed on his right side. Although Ernst and Monique Lazarr had been wealthy at the time of his accident, the clinic’s costs—over five years—had stripped them of all their investments.
Albrecht remembered Monique saying, after an unpleasant session about increased costs with the clinic’s comptroller, “I wish I could run away and start my life over again.”
That was exactly how Albrecht felt.
He had told her so. Commiserated with her. Shared burdens blossomed into romance. One that would have stayed carefully hidden had it not been for two unrelated events that happened almost simultaneously.
Albrecht had been having a drink after work when a well-dressed blond woman took the bar stool next to him and began flirting. At first, he’d thought she was a call girl. But her jewelry and expensive clothes made him think otherwise. To his delight, she’d invited him back to her apartment.
They’d ridden in her car, a red Mazerati Spyder, to a small but smartly furnished house overlooking the Neckar River. The bedroom had William Morris willow pattern wallpaper, a Biedermeier dresser, a brass double bed on which they’d made love in ways he’d never experienced.
For Albrecht, that night had been the beginning of two weeks of intense pleasure. The more, the better, the kinkier the sex, the more Albrecht wondered what this woman wanted. He knew stunning blonds didn’t pick-up overweight, middle-age men unless they wanted something.
She’d been artful at that, as well. They’d been in bed when she’d whispered into his ear, “Lover, will you do something for me?”
“Anything.”
“You’ll like it. It will feel so good.”
“Anything you want.”
“It’s something that will make us both richer.” She’d rubbed her naked body against his. “Will you do it for me? Promise me you’ll say yes.”
When he didn’t immediately answer, she pulled away from him.
“Yes. There, I’ve said it,” he said pulling her back.
Later, lying there naked together, he’d asked her what she’d been talking about.
“I want you to help me steal $50-million,” she’d said with the confidence of a done deal. She rolled over, kissed him. “And you’ve already said yes.”
“That’s right, I did,” he said without conviction.
She’d rolled away from him. “Not good enough. No more sex until we get this settled.”
He’d grabbed for her. “Marike, not—”She’d eluded his hands, gotten off the bed. “Dieter, I must know you mean it. You must convince me.”
Frustrated, he said, “How can I? I don’t know what it is.”
She’d grinned, straddled his chest, explained exactly what she’d wanted done. Only after he’d sworn to it did they made love. Despite his assurances, Albrecht hadn’t taken her plan seriously until he’d received a hysterical call from Monique four days later.
“Dieter,” she’d wailed into the phone, “Ernst is dead. The Clinic phoned, there was an accident. What am I to do?”
“Calm yourself, dear,” he’d said soothingly. “Tell me exactly what they told you.”
“Ernst was alone in his room, in his wheelchair. He must have tried to stand up, fallen out of the chair, struck his head. They said the blow killed him, that he was dead when they found him. Doctor, himself, called to break the news. He said there was nothing that could be done for him.”
“I’m sure doctor was right,” Albrecht told her. “Ernst’s long struggle has ended. He’s in a better place, Monique. I know it will be difficult, but you must think of his passing as a blessing. Ernst is at peace.”
She wasn’t calmed. Her hysteria increased. “What about me, Dieter, what will become of me? For five years, I have done nothing but look af
ter Ernst. Now that he’s passed, I have nothing. What am I to do?”
That was the moment Marike’s plan became real to Albrecht. “Let me take you to dinner,” he said comfortingly. “I have an idea I want to share with you.”
CHAPTER 91
Hanna arrived at the Bureau at 9:00 the next morning. She’d had good intentions of being in at 8:00, but her hand kept finding the snooze button.
On the way to her office, she paused at Amy’s desk, asked, “Any word on Agent Shuloff’s arrival?”
Amy, working at her computer, swiveled around in her seat, began coughing. When the fit had passed, she said, “An office-wide email this morning. Says the trial he was involved with is over, should be here sometime today or tomorrow.”
Hanna mulled over the timing, decided she couldn’t wait that long. “See if you can get him on the phone. I need to brief him on the Beck/Lohse matters.”
“Ah, the proverbial late breaking developments,” Amy said with her usual wry grin.
Hanna nodded wearily. “Very late. I got home at 5:30 in the morning.”
Amy chuckled. “My secret formula will fix you right up.”
Hanna raised an eyebrow.
“Green tea with caffeine.”
“Perfect. Love a cup,” Hanna said, thanking her as she headed to her office. At her desk, she began organizing things that would need to be handled during her absence.
There was a knock at her door, Amy entered, cup of tea in hand. “Couldn’t get Agent Shuloff,” she said handing Hanna the tea. “It went to voicemail. Do you want to leave a message?”
Hanna debated, decided to leave a short voicemail, write up a detailed memo for his arrival. “I’ll voicemail him,” she told Amy. “Will you make me some airline reservations?”
“Sure. Where to?”
“Puerto Vallarta, Mexico. First available flight. Make a reservation in my name and one for Miles Marin.”
Amy’s wry grin returned.
“I know. I know. It’s why I have to be very careful what I tell Agent Shuloff.”
CHAPTER 92
At 8:10 a.m., Matt Shuloff left the Best Western where he’d spent the night, walked the three blocks to the Bureau. Shuloff was wearing a dark gray suit, heavily starched white shirt, striped blue and white tie, highly-polished wingtips. In his left hand he carried a black leather attaché.
At age 47, Shuloff was fit, trim. He had a round face, dark eyes, hook nose, thin lips. He wore his brown hair in a close crew cut.Normally there was a spring in his step. Not today. Three weeks of trial prep, four days on the stand, O’Neill’s constant badgering to hurry up and get to Sarasota had taken their toll.
Far be it for him to question a Deputy Director, but if O’Neill needed someone in Sarasota a week ago, he should have selected someone else.
His cell vibrated. He pulled it off his belt holster, looked at the ID. The devil himself. “Yes, sir.”
“Matt, I’ve been called to an off-site. After you’ve talked to Casper, call me on my cell and we’ll discuss an action plan for the Beck/Lohse matters.”
“Yes, sir.”
“What time will you be debriefing Casper?”
“I’m not certain yet, sir. But I do understand your sense of urgency.”
“Good. Be waiting to hear from you.”
He re-holstered his cell, stepped into the Bureau’s lobby. An hour later, ensconced in Casper’s former office, Shuloff had him on the phone. “Deputy Director O’Neill asked me to meet with you. What time could you come in?”
“Ten? How’s that?”
“Good. Appreciate your willingness to come in so quickly.”
“Sure,” Casper said before he rang off.
• • •
Casper cradled the phone receiver. Maybe O’Neill was going to help him after all. He changed clothes, got ready. Promptly at 10:00, he walked into the Bureau’s lobby for the first time since his surgery.
“Good to see you back, Agent Casper,” the smiling receptionist told him. To the man who would escort him, she said, “Bobby, Conference Room ‘B’, please.”
Casper frowned at the mention of ‘B’. It had a wall of windows and would subject him to sunlight. Suck it up, he told himself.
Shuloff was waiting for him in the hallway, a thick file in his left hand. The two men shook hands, sized each other up. “Good to meet you,” Shuloff said easily. “Coffee is on the way,” he added as they entered the conference room.
Casper wanted to sit away from the window, but saw a laptop, pile of papers there. Annoyed, knowing he’d burn, he sat on the window side.
Shuloff shut the door, sat in front of the pile of papers, mouthed pleasantries until the coffee arrived, then got right to it. “Tell me about your heart procedure.”
Casper gave him the whole sorry tale.
When he was finished, Shuloff said, “I’m going to need doctor’s names and phone numbers.”
Casper dug out his Blackberry, read them off, watched Shuloff write them on a sheet of paper.
Shuloff stood, piece of paper in hand. “Be right back.” He was gone for five minutes, returned without the paper. He took his seat, opened the two file folders, organized some papers. “Start at the beginning. Tell me about the Beck/Lohse matters.”
Casper detailed everything he knew.
“Weren’t you concerned about missing that press conference?” Shuloff wanted to know.
Casper’s big chin quivered. “Trust me, when you’re facing heart surgery, you don’t worry about a press conference.”
Shuloff’s cell rang. He answered it, listened for a long time. Said, “Thanks,” clicked it off, reholstered it on his belt. “Listen,” he said to Casper , “I need to step out again. Might be a while. Can we get you anything?”
Casper shook his head. “I’m fine.”
• • •
Don O’Neill was in a coordination meeting. Around the large conference table at the facility in Northern Virginia were representatives of Homeland Security, NIA, CIA, and the Pentagon. The issue on the table was the vulnerability of the Alaskan oil pipeline to terrorist attack.
O’Neill felt a vibration in his suit’s right jacket pocket. He pulled out his cell, held it under the table to look at the ID. “Excuse me, gentlemen. I have to take this call.” He stood, left the room, found a secluded area in the hall. “Yes.”
“Agent Shuloff, sir. Wanted to report that I’ve met with Agent Casper, went over the chronology of his absence from the Bureau, had people talk with his doctors. Bottom line, sir, his story checks out. His cardiologist remembered him saying he had to get back to the office, that he couldn’t be admitted to the hospital. Doctor said he couldn’t let Casper leave. If he had, Casper would have pitched over dead.”
O’Neill processed what he’d heard. “Then th—”
“Excuse me, sir. There is one new development you should be aware of. I had a voice mail from Agent Chance, saying that she’d identified Dieter Albrecht of Daimler AG as the insider and that she’d tracked Albrecht to Mexico.”
“Get a team on that, immediately.”
“Agent Chance already left, sir. She also believes the woman who killed Beck and Lohse is headed to Mexico.”
O’Neill had a vague sense of Chance as an inexperienced agent. “So she’s been responsible for the progress on these matters?”
“It appears so, sir.”
“And she went to Mexico by herself?”
“I believe so, sir. The voicemail references a brief she put together for me on these matters, but I haven’t seen it, yet.”
“When you find it, forward a copy on to me.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Is Casper still there?”
“Yes, sir. He’s waiting in a conference room.”
“Excellent,” O’Neil said and smiled. An idea had come to him. “Here’s what I want to do.”
CHAPTER 93
Albrecht woke early that morning, got out of bed quietly so as not to disturb Monique
. He’d discovered, in their short time together, she liked to sleep in. Albrecht put on a robe, walked barefoot down the curved stairway to the main hall, then to the kitchen.
Mae, the cook, had already made coffee. Albrecht poured himself a cup, picked up the Financial Times off the kitchen counter, carried coffee and newspaper out to his favorite spot on the terrace.
The house had been sited on a cliff. The stone terrace, which spanned the back of the house, extended from the house to the cliff’s edge. A three-foot high stone wall marked the edge, beyond that, the cliff fell a hundred feet to the sea.
From his chair by the wall, Albrecht could see a vast expanse of water, hear the waves crashing on the rocks below, feel the ocean breeze. It wasn’t his beloved sailing. Still, there were moments where it seemed as if he was at sea. He savored that feeling now, as he sipped his coffee, studied the ups and downs of the market, knowing he had roughly $35-million to invest.
He’d have had more but Monique had spared no expense on the house. She’d heard about it at her plastic surgeon’s office in L.A., leased it for a year, gotten carried away with redecorating, turning the house into a McMansion.
Quite a feat considering Monique had had no money. She’d negotiated the lease, made her purchases, had work performed, all on a promise to pay when an inheritance arrived. What little money she’d had, she’d spent on bribes to the building inspector, employment agency, and most importantly, local police. Now, the police functioned as their private security force. Anyone who threatened them, would be taken into police custody or disappear.
Albrecht believed he had covered their tracks exceedingly well. But if someone were to track him to this place, he hoped it would happen quickly, so it could be dealt with and put behind him.
